


The Vampire and the Detective

by Goldenheartedrose



Series: Tumblr ficlets [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Twilight
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldenheartedrose/pseuds/Goldenheartedrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock investigates a string of missing persons, John has a moral dilemma, and Sherlock tries to understand the supernatural.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vampire and the Detective

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt by miraclesabound on Tumblr:
> 
> I'd love to see Sherlock processing Carlisle's existence (both as a vampire and as a doctor)

Two years.  
  
It's been two years to the day since Sherlock jumped off that rooftop, Moriarty's words ringing in his ears. He had several expectations after he took that leap. He assumed that John would still trust his every word. He assumed that eventually, the trail would run cold and he'd need Mycroft's help. What he didn't expect was for John to find him, completely unassisted.  
  
Sherlock gazed at the man sleeping next to him. Sandy hair and faint crinkles in his skin gave him a weathered yet soft appearance. Sherlock knew people underestimated John. It was easy enough to do, after all. Quiet ex-army doctor in fairly bland jumpers? Who would suspect that such an unassuming man could do much harm?  
  
Oh, but Sherlock Holmes knew the truth about Dr. John Watson. He saw the truth - this was not a man traumatized by a war he could never return to. This was a man who craved danger, for whom utter silence and boredom was a prison. John Watson was not unlike himself.  
  
So when John followed him, having deduced quite accurately that he was alive, a mere 11 months after his "death", well, Sherlock can't say that he was completely surprised. No, not by a long shot.  
  
The punch had been well-deserved. The kiss? Well, that had been a pleasant surprise.  
  
The previous 13 months had been an exercise in trust. Each of them had found themselves in compromising situations. John had been drugged, nearly to the point of death. It was by sheer luck (and a hidden GPS device, undetected even by Sherlock) that Mycroft had been able to locate him in time. Sherlock, in a fit of pique, had jumped into the freezing Thames after a suspect. He now sported some very specific burn marks on his chest where his heart had to be restarted.  
  
Now, however, they had hit a bit of a lull in the search for the rest of Moriarty’s web. Even Mycroft wasn't sure of the exact location of Colonel Sebastian Moran. So when Mycroft heard of an opportunity for John to work for a short period of time as a doctor in a hospital in small town America, well, let's just say that they both jumped at the chance. The bonus, of course, was that there had been a string of unexplained disappearances in the town of Forks, Washington, and its surrounding areas.  
  
"Morning."  John yawned next to him, stretching his arms overhead and curling his toes.  
  
"Good morning, John." Sherlock had his laptop open in front of him, eager pounding away at the keys.  
  
"What's on today, then?"  
  
"Need to interview a few people. The police chief is an idiot. Have to see if anyone else knows anything. Thinking of heading down to the Quileute reservation, but expect resistance. Don't expect to find any bodies there. Expect that the disappearances are heading out of town, toward Seattle. Honestly, John, I wouldn’t be surprised if they do all turn out to be teenage runaways. How boring."  
  
"Mmmm," John said, head resting against Sherlock's hip. His boxers were slung low.  John ran his thumb over his hipbone. "Sherlock," he asked, concern in his voice. "When was the last time you ate?"  
  
Sherlock looked over at him and frowned. "What's today?"  
  
"Friday."  
  
"Hmmm.  Tuesday?”  
  
"Ok, no. Sherlock, that’s unacceptable. You're getting too thin. Come along - I'm going to make you a proper English breakfast and you're going to eat it all."  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John distracted him by nibbling gently on his jaw and sucking under his ear.  "Oh, hmmm...okay. That sounds lovely, John."

  
An hour later, Sherlock was off to the police station yet again, hoping to perhaps get some real answers.  Unfortunately, Mycroft’s influence in the US was far less substantial than it was in London.  It seemed that small town Americans were very protective of their own, and he didn’t have access to nearly as much information as he needed in order to do his job.

  
“Chief Swan,” Sherlock rubbed his palm over his eyes.  “I’m just trying to do what I can to help you locate these,” he referenced his phone, “ten missing persons.”  Sherlock put on his nice face and flashed a brilliant smile.  
  
Chief Charlie Swan was not easily swayed.  “I still can’t let you have access to every file in our records.  You can have copies of the missing persons' reports; you can contact their families if you like, though I don’t think they’ll be very pleased to see you.  But I can’t let you have free rein here.”  
  
Sherlock huffed.  “Fine.  Give me what you have, and I’ll look it over.”  
  
A few minutes later, he was poring over the files at the local diner.  He sniffed the air.  Good thing he had agreed to eat the breakfast John cooked.  The food here was utterly atrocious, if the smell was any indication.  How did people _eat_ that?  It was almost enough to distract him from what he was doing.  
  
The more he looked over the pages of missing persons reports, the more frustrated he became.  These were nothing more than runaways – simply kids that were dissatisfied with their lives and decided to try and make a new life for themselves.  They came from all different backgrounds.  There was Bree Tanner, a 16 year old from a conservative religious family, whose family swore up and down she would never have left home voluntarily.  Sherlock huffed at that.  They were wrong.  She was exactly the type to leave home – just vaguely unsatisfied enough, making small enough changes to her appearance and associations to escape their notice.  
  
Then Sherlock gets to the much more obvious Diego Santiago, an eighteen year old whose older brother was killed by gang members.  It only makes sense that he was next.  His brother likely had outstanding debts, either monetary or otherwise. Diego likely left home in order to try and find a new life for himself.  Or to try and become invisible.  That indeed was another possibility.  Either way, Diego wasn’t coming back home.  
  
Sherlock sighed in frustration.  There was obviously something he was missing... but what? Though it was not uncommon for teenagers to run away from home, ten out of such a small town in just about a year’s time was substantial.  Unfortunately, there was nothing linking these ten teenagers.  They came from various backgrounds, and really, the only thing they had in common was the high school they attended - Forks High.  Unfortunately, every teenager in Forks attended Forks High, except for the Quileute tribe members.  They, of course, attended the school on the reservation.  
  
The problem, however, was that there truly _was_ a mystery here.  If this had been any of the surrounding cities - Seattle, Portland, Olympia, for example -- this would have escaped notice.  But this was not Seattle.  This was not Portland.  This was Forks, Washington.  Population 3,349.  Ten missing teenagers in under a year was substantial.    
  
“More coffee, dear?” The matronly waitress asked as Sherlock thumbed through the files once again.  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  “No.”  She began to walk away and he called after her.  “Thank you.”  
  
“No problem, dearie.”  Sherlock smiled a little.  She reminded him of Mrs. Hudson – well, an Americanized Mrs. Hudson.  That was somewhat unexpected.  He hadn’t realized how much he counted on Mrs. Hudson’s caretaking until his life was devoid of it again.

  
It had been a long two years.  John made things better, of course.  The first 11 months were dreadful, and he lost focus often -- just thinking of John.  Unfortunately, that hadn’t changed much after John had decided to join him.  Now, he just had a better idea of John’s location, and a higher realization that John often was in more danger than when he was back at Baker Street.    
  
Sherlock sighed, packing up his files and laptop, and left a few dollars on the table as he left.  He decided that his next logical stop would be the Quileute reservation.  If the townsfolk didn’t know much about the disappearances, perhaps those considered to be outliers might know more.    
  
Sherlock’s phone beeped at him as he got into the car.  It was John -- of course it was John.  
  
 _I have an interesting development in your case. -- JW_  
  
 _Oh?_ Sherlock typed back.   _How so? -- SH_  
  
The response was almost immediate. _Had an interesting conversation with a colleague.  Not sure you’ll believe it all, but we’re taking him to dinner tonight. -- JW_  
  
Sherlock frowned.   _Do you think he’s lying? -- SH_  
  
 _No.  That’s the odd thing.  I believe every word he says, implausible as it may be. -- JW_  
  
 _I trust you. -- SH_  
  
John had decided it would be smart to get out of town, so that they could eat in peace without being disturbed, either by townspeople or the chief of police.  Somehow, it hadn’t taken long for the people of Forks to realize that Sherlock was investigating the disappearances.  Well, Sherlock wasn’t exactly subtle.  He asked questions -- obvious questions regarding the disappearances.  It would be nice to have a break from the scrutiny of the townspeople, who immediately distrusted this posh British stranger, as though he were going to take over the entirety of the police force.  
  
So here they were in Port Angeles, just a few miles away, and not that much bigger of a town, but with a few decent restaurants.  They settled for Bella Italia.  It was pricey, yeah, but famous for their mushroom ravioli.  A waiter in a tuxedo seated Sherlock and John, but Carlisle had not yet arrived.  
  
“So,” Sherlock began.  “This friend of yours...”  
  
“Ah, colleague is more accurate,” John began, taking a sip of water.  “He’s a fantastic ER doctor.  Jumps right in and instinctually knows what to do.  Claims he’s in his 40s, but I don’t think he looks a day over 30.”  
  
“Good genes, perhaps.”  
  
“Perhaps.  He’s....something else.”  
  
“Oh, John, do you have a crush on him?”  Sherlock teased.    
  
John laughed.  “You are ridiculous.  No, of course not.  He’s just....intriguing.  I don’t exactly know what to make of him.”  He looked up from the bread he was cutting to see a familiar figure striding toward their table.  “Ah, speaking of...”  His voice trailed off as the pale man in the blue suit joined them at the table.  His blonde hair was cut short and his eyes were golden.  “Carlisle,” John greeted him, clasping his hand as he rose.    
  
“John.  Excellent to see you.”  He took his seat and looked over.  “And you must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes.  I’ve heard so much about you.”  
  
“Oh?” Sherlock inquired.  “Good things?”  
  
“Mmm, very.  You’re supposed to be dead.”  Carlisle winked as Sherlock dropped the knife he was using to butter his bread.  “Oh, don’t worry.  Your secret is safe with me.”  He reached his hand across the table.  “Dr. Carlisle Cullen.”  
  
“Very nice to meet you, Dr. Cullen.”  Sherlock noticed that Carlisle’s skin was inordinately cold.  “Are you well, Dr. Cullen,” he asked.  “You seem to be a bit chilled.”  
  
Carlisle simply smiled.  “Oh.  That.  I’m fine.  I just have a much lower body temperature than most people.  I’ve survived quite a few years without any problems.”  
  
Sherlock nodded.  “I see.”  
  
“I’m sure you will,” he said quietly.    
  
Sherlock began to see what John had meant -- why he was so fascinated, so intrigued by this man.  He was, for lack of a better term, gorgeous.  Pale skin, white-blonde hair, and the oddest shade of golden eyes.  His lips were red, and he had such an alien look to him.  People had commented on Sherlock looking at times like an alien, but that paled in comparison to the man sitting across from him.  He tried to examine his features, but found he came up short.  His hands were that of a surgeon’s, long and strong.  He could see no injuries, no scars, nothing really telling about him.  This man was truly a mystery.  
  
John watched him for awhile, but when it became clear that he was doing more than attempting to deduce, he cleared his throat as if to say, “You going to ogle my friend or me?”  
  
Sherlock looked up into Carlisle’s eyes.  “So.  John tells me that you’re a very skilled doctor.  How long have you lived here in Forks?”  
  
“About six years now.  I worked at the UW medical center in Seattle before moving here.  My wife and I wanted a smaller town, a bit of a safer town, perhaps, for our children.”  
  
“Ah, you have children?” Sherlock asked, feigning interest.  At least this would let him get a read on how old the man truly was.  
  
“Yes.  Four, in fact.  They’re all adopted.”    
  
Damn, thought Sherlock.  So much for that plan.  “How...benevolent of you.”  
  
“I suppose.  My wife cannot bear children of her own, so we chose to adopt.  They’re all about to graduate high school now.”  
  
Sherlock coughed as a piece of bread got caught in his throat.  “They’re all graduating high school at the same time?”  
  
“Yes.  We adopted them all at different times in their lives, but yes, they all turn 18 this year.”  
John nodded.  “That’s, um, brave.”  
  
Carlisle laughed.  “I suppose so.  Better than having the terrible twos for four years in a row, though.”  
  
“You have a point,” John laughed.    
  
“So, Carlisle,” Sherlock began.  “I’m sure you’ve been distressed by these disappearances, having children of your own.”  
  
Carlisle nodded.  “Yes.  And no.  I don’t expect that my children are going to run away anytime soon, or be captured, as I suspect these other kids have been.”  
  
“You think they’ve been captured? By whom?”  Sherlock asked.    
  
“That I don’t know.  I know _what_ they are.  I don’t know _who_ they are.”  
  
Sherlock sighed.  “Fine,” he said tersely.  “What are they?”  
  
Carlisle shook his head.  “No.  First, how much do you believe in the supernatural?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  “Not very much, I’m afraid.  My mind is ruled by logic and reason.  The supernatural tends to stray outside of that.”  
  
Carlisle nodded.  “I figured as much.”  
  
“But,” John interjected.  “He’s willing to listen to your theory.  I know it sounded a bit crazy to me, but I think it’s at least plausible, if you’re telling the truth.”  
  
Carlisle nodded.  “Oh, I am.”  He sighed.  “Fine.  Outside the confines of Forks, there is a war going on.  It’s a war between creatures that you likely think only exist in stories.  It’s a war between vampires and werewolves.”  
  
Sherlock laughed, a loud bellowing laugh for a few seconds before he was able to calm himself.  “Oh, you’re serious?”  He cleared his throat.  “Sorry.  Continue.”  
  
“I am not supposed to reveal this to anyone in Forks, but as you’re not really a resident of Forks, well.... I am a vampire.”

  
Sherlock’s eyes grew wider.  “You think I’m going to believe that you are a vampire?”  
  
Carlisle smiled.  “No.  I don’t expect you to.  I haven’t told many people, but most people aren’t very accepting at first.”  
  
“So you are enemies to the werewolves? Who exactly are these werewolves?”  
  
“Members of the Quileute tribe.  Here,” Carlisle procured a book from his jacket.  “Feel free to read this.  It’s a bunch of legends, just old stories, but there’s a ring of truth to them.”  
  
“So, if you believe that these disappearances have to do with the werewolf and vampire war, who do you think has captured these kids?” Sherlock asked, fingering the book tentatively.  
  
“Oh, that’s simple.  Her name is Victoria.  She had a mate.  His name was James.  He threatened one of our family members -- one of our _human_ family members, Bella.  My son Edward acted in defense of Bella, and destroyed –well, killed James.  Victoria wants revenge.  We believe that she’s trying to raise up an army of newborn vampires.”  
  
“Newborn vampires?” Sherlock asked incredulously.  The ridiculousness of this conversation was making his head spin.  “You mean...this woman, Victoria, is capturing these teenagers and turning them into vampires?”  
  
“Precisely,” Carlisle said.    
  
“John,” Sherlock began.  “You believe this?”  
  
John shrugged.  “He’s got nothing to gain by lying to us.  If what he says is true, and I don’t doubt that it is, he is risking a whole lot more by telling us than by keeping silent.”  
  
“Hmm.”  Sherlock considered that.  “Wait a second.  If you’re a vampire, you drink blood.”  
  
“Yes.”    
  
“You don’t just drink blood.  You _crave_ it.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“How in the world can you manage to be a doctor if that’s the case?”  
  
“My family is a bit different.  We don’t drink human blood.  Other vampires tend to call us ‘vegetarians’ because we only drink the blood of animals.”  
  
“So you hunt.... what? Deer, mountain lions, bears?”  
  
“Precisely.”  
  
“Fascinating.  But the smell of human blood isn’t …. enticing to you anymore?”  
  
“Oh, I still struggle a bit.  But I’ve had many years to put this into practice.”  
  
John shivered at that thought.  “How long have you been a doctor, Carlisle?” he asked.  
  
“A long time,” Carlisle began evasively.  “I’m not sure you really want to know that.”  
  
John nodded.  “I’m curious.  Indulge me.”  
  
“Since 1921.”  
  
“You’ve been a vampire since 1921?”  Sherlock asked incredulously.  
  
“No.  John asked how long I’d been a doctor.  I’ve been a doctor since 1921.  I’ve been a vampire since the 1640s.  I’m not entirely sure of the date; records weren’t kept very well back then.”  
  
Sherlock sat back in his seat.  He felt chilled to his bones.  This was not happening -- this could not be happening.  His brain was firing off questions far too quickly.  Being a vampire defied every logical bone in his body.  How in the world did Carlisle expect him to believe all of this? Carlisle himself didn’t look more than 35 years old, and yet he claimed that he was turned into a vampire in the 1640s - almost 400 years ago.  He only realized that he was beginning to hyperventilate when he heard his name.  
  
John touched his arm.  “Sherlock? Are you all right?”  
  
Sherlock blinked quickly.  “Fine.  Fine.  Just.... need time to process.”  
  
Carlisle nodded.  “If you have any questions, you know where to find me.”  He nodded once at John and again at Sherlock.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, John,” he said, folding the napkin on top of the table.    
  
“Tomorrow,” John repeated as Carlisle left the restaurant.  
  
“John,” Sherlock began.  “That was bizarre.”  
  
“I know.  I told you -- I told you it was a bit unbelievable.”  
  
Sherlock laughed.  “It is that.  Do you really believe him?”  
  
John shrugged.  “I don’t know what to believe.  But ten disappearances from a small town in one year? That seems excessive.  There has to be some other explanation.”  Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John cut him off.  “No, I don’t necessarily think this is the only explanation.  I think it’s pretty farfetched.  But if such creatures exist.... if they do... this could work.”

  
Sherlock steepled his fingers together under his chin.  “Could.  I suppose.”  
  
“Quite right,” John said, finishing off the last of his mushroom ravioli.  
  
“Ready to go?” Sherlock asked a moment later.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Good.  You drive.  I need to make a phone call.”  
  
John clutched his chest.  “You? Make a phone call? The earth must have stopped moving.”  
  
“Hilarious, John,” Sherlock said flatly, rolling his eyes.  He punched a few numbers into the phone.  “Mycroft,” he said gruffly.  “I have a question to ask you.”  
  
John shot him a blazing look.  Fantastic.  Now Mycroft was involved, this had become a far bigger deal than it would have been otherwise.  Sherlock never used to call on his older brother for help, but since he was technically dead, he’d had to do so far more often than before.

  
John could hear Mycroft’s voice on the other end.  “What is it, dear brother?”  There was a huff that indicated the level of Mycroft’s annoyance with Sherlock hadn’t reached its peak.    
  
“You’ve...seen things.  Supernatural things... things that shouldn’t exist but do.”  
  
This was news to John.  He had no idea what Sherlock was talking about, and wasn’t even sure he wanted to find out.  
  
“Like with U.N.I.T. and Torchwood -- you’ve seen things.”

 

John wrinkled his brow.  Torchwood…that was a name he had heard, but information about it was wrapped up in a vast amount of rumours.  He didn’t think that it actually existed.  
  
“Yes, brother dear,” Mycroft said.  “There are things that the public isn’t privy to that I am.”  
  
“So if someone told you that they were a vampire, would you believe them?”  
  
John rolled his eyes.  Great.  There was no going back now, was there?  He could hear Mycroft’s voice from the other end of the line.  “Barring any real evidence to the contrary, I suppose I would consider it a possibility.  Yes.”  
  
“Thank you, Mycroft.”  Sherlock clicked the phone off, and pocketed it.  
  
“Well?” John asked.  “Get your answer?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  “To some extent.”  
  
“Do I even want to know what Mycroft is privy to that we mere mortals aren’t?”  
  
“Probably not.”  
  
“Do I want to know what U.N.I.T. and Torchwood are?”  
  
“Oh, that’s simple.  Special operations -- not a part of the government or the police, really.”  
  
“Ah.  It’s so clear now.”  
  
“Really?” Sherlock asked incredulously.  
  
“No, not really,” John asked, huffing.  “I have no idea what just happened in that conversation, and well, my head’s spinning a bit from the events of today.”  
  
Sherlock nodded.  “Best get to bed as soon as possible.”

  
John yawned.  “On that, love, I think we can agree.”  
  
Upon arriving back at their hotel room, John quickly changed into pyjamas and flopped down under the covers.  Sherlock followed quickly, divesting himself of all but his pants and a t-shirt and climbs into bed.  John wrapped his arm around Sherlock, nuzzling his face into Sherlock’s shoulder.  Within minutes, he was asleep.  Sherlock, however, found that now more than ever, it’s impossible to turn his brain off so quickly.  He thinks about the events of the night.  He wished he could grab the book that Carlisle gave him, but he knew that he would likely wake John if he tried to go get it.  
  
So instead, he occupied his mind with the facts.    
  
Fact: Carlisle Cullen is a doctor who looks younger than he should.

Fact: Carlisle Cullen is a beautiful creature, with odd eyes and freezing cold skin.  

Fact: Carlisle Cullen has a lot more to lose by sharing information than we have by receiving it.  
  
Sherlock breathed out a sigh.  Is it really possible?  It’s not like he hasn’t encountered the supernatural before.  Of course his brain is geared toward the logical and rational - most people’s brains are, to some extent, but his unbearably so.  There is some measure of suspension of disbelief in order for ordinary people to believe in the supernatural, specifically religion.  Sherlock has never been that person.  He has never been a very religious person, more specifically.  He always likes to be able to test what he sees, to use his senses to deduce the truth, rather than believe because someone said something was true.  As he’s learned many times before, everyone lies.  Everyone is dishonest sometimes, even if it’s simply to themselves.  So the idea of the supernatural? Illogical if you were to ask Sherlock.  
  
He always believed Mycroft was the same, until one day, he found out about U.N.I.T. and Torchwood.  Mycroft was livid when Sherlock asked.  He wasn’t supposed to know about those things.  How had he found out? Oh, yes, because Sherlock was snooping again, as Sherlocks do.   He was trying to dig up some dirt on his big brother, perhaps to use as leverage so he didn’t have to come home for Christmas.    
  
“Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft had gritted his teeth, tersely focusing on every syllable individually.  “What have you done?”  
  
“A little blackmail material.  You know.”  
  
“This is a matter of national security! You can’t just go browsing the contents of my drawers, of my computer.  This isn’t a game, Sherlock!”  
  
Sherlock was taken aback by his brother’s anger.  “I’m -- I’m sorry.”

  
Mycroft sighed, collapsing into his seat.  “How much do you know?” He asked.  
  
“Only that they’re secret government programs.”  
  
“You won’t stop asking what they entail until I tell you, will you?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I didn’t think so.”  
  
Over the next half hour, Mycroft explained the details of both programs.  Both very secret, both programs that just were not talked about.  The general public had no idea, and could have no idea.  Both had vast amounts of technology that Sherlock hadn’t even known existed.  And both dealt in some way with the supernatural.  Torchwood did more than U.N.I.T.  Torchwood was the name of the organization that dealt with alien life that somehow found its way to modern-day Cardiff. 

  
At first, Sherlock had wanted to laugh.  Aliens? Even Mycroft couldn’t be that stupid.  Then Mycroft showed him the videos.  And the pictures.  And even some of the physical evidence. It was clear these weren’t doctored, or if they were, the person did an extraordinary, completely undetectable job.  Reluctantly, he agreed.  He agreed that Mycroft was right.  And he agreed to keep his mouth shut – for once.    
  
And until today, he had.  He hadn’t exactly told John anything, really.  Just that these two organizations within the government existed, and that they dealt with the supernatural.  So, nothing really.  Nothing that would concern even Mycroft.  
  
Morning came far too soon, and Sherlock rubbed his eyes.  He wasn’t sure when exactly he had drifted off to sleep, but obviously it had been into the early hours of the morning.  He found it hadn’t been quite enough sleep.

  
John stretched beside him.  “Morning,” he said.  “Rough night?”  He asked, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.  “You look extraordinarily tired.”  
  
“I suppose I’m not really sure what time I fell asleep.  It didn’t feel like enough.”  
  
“Mmm.  I know that feeling well,” he said, kissing Sherlock’s cheek.  The touch made Sherlock shiver.  
  
“Mmm.  You can do that again,” he said with a smirk.  
  
“My pleasure,” John replied.  
  
“No.  Mine,” he growled greedily, pulling John on top of him.  
  
“Oh, is that how you’re going to play, hmm? Two can play at that game.”  
  
John and Sherlock have officially been together for 13 months, but that was a time period that defied all common convention.  At times, you’d assume that they’d been married for years, with the amount of bickering they did.  At other times, you’d think that they were newly discovering each other, with all their teasing and hesitation.    
  
Sherlock merely wanted to catalogue every part of John’s body, from the taste of the skin behind his ear to the flutter of his eyelashes when he came undone.  John, for his part, was just happy to be -- to be here, to be with Sherlock.  It was madness when he came to think of it, really.  He had spent 18 months denying what he was brewing between him and Sherlock.  Then Sherlock had to go and fake his own suicide, and he thought that was the end of it -- the end of him.  So this? This had been a long time coming, something that John thought he could never have.  He took joy in every moment they had together -- from the more mundane to the heart-stopping excitement.  Whether that adrenaline rush was found in running after criminals or chasing an orgasm -- well, what did it matter? At least they’d do it together.  
  
An hour later, John was out the door, planting a brief kiss on Sherlock’s forehead with a promise to text him later.    
  
Sherlock briefly considered getting up, but determined that the few hours of sleep was probably not sufficient.  And without John here today to feed him copious amounts of caffeine and biscuits, he determined that sleep was in order.  This is something that had changed in the past couple of years.  When he was alone, he determined he needed to take more care of his body, because he needed his brain sharp in order to fight off any danger.  He never needed that before – it never seemed important.  But when coming back to John was what was on the line – somehow it mattered more.

  
Sherlock awoke to hear his phone buzzing insistently.  Blearily, he opened his eyes and looked at the screen on his phone.  John.    
“John?” He answered, voice groggy with sleep.  
  
“Sherlock?  Are you still asleep?”  
  
“I -- no, not anymore.”  
  
“Bugger.  I didn’t mean to wake you up.”  
  
“Needed to get up anyway.  What is it, then?”  
  
“Oh.  Um.  Carlisle thinks he might know more... about the disappearances.”  
  
“Ah.  I see.  More than he told us last night?”  
  
“Yes.”  John hesitated.  “Afraid I can’t really....”  
  
“I know.  You can’t say more than that over the phone.  It wouldn’t be safe... well, for anyone.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well, he’ll come over and we’ll discuss it tonight, yes?”  
  
“Yes.  We should be there in about an hour or so.”  
  
“Early day?”  
  
“Um.  Sherlock.  Have you actually checked the time lately?”

 

“No.”

 

“It’s 4:30pm.”  
  
“It’s -- what?”  Sherlock turned the clock next to his bed and noted the time.  “That it is.”  
  
“Catching up on a year’s worth of sleep?”  
  
“I guess so,” Sherlock chuckled.  “I’ll just...shower, and see you when you get here, then.”  
  
“Right then.”  
  
Sherlock chuckled as he hung up the phone.   He shook off the last threads of exhaustion, and hopped into the shower.  Once dressed, he picked up the book that Carlisle had given him last night.  Clearly, he intended for Sherlock to read it, and he didn’t feel like it would be a good idea to ignore it entirely, not when Carlisle would be back over here in just over an hour to discuss more…revelations.  
  
He spent the next hour pouring over its contents.  It was a book -- a book of legends.  A few of those legends rang true -- a little too close for comfort.    
  
And then there was the truly bizarre painting toward the center of the book.  It was a story centering on the Stregoni Benefici, an Italian vampire legend.  These particular vampires tended to be kinder and more compassionate, turning their prey only in the last moments before death.  They still hunted humans, but a select few chose to suppress their needs and hunt animals instead.    
  
Sherlock shuddered with recognition.  Not only did this passage _sound_ like Carlisle, but there was a reproduction of a painting in the middle of the page.  It was of a blonde man with sharp features, dressed in 17th century regalia.  If Sherlock didn’t know better, he would believe that was an artistic rendition of Carlisle Cullen.    
  
But that wasn’t possible, was it? He couldn’t actually be telling the truth, could he?  Carlisle claimed to have been changed in the 1640s.  If he was telling the truth, it would be entirely feasible for this to depict him.    
  
Sherlock shook his head.  He didn’t actually believe all of this, did he? It was ludicrous! There weren’t vampires – those were just legends.  Right?

 

Just then, the door to their hotel opened, and in walked John, followed by Carlisle.  Carlisle just smiled at Sherlock.  “Ah, you’ve been reading,” he said.  
  
“Yes.  I have.  And looking.”  Sherlock held out the book to him, pointing at the figure.  “This isn’t you, is it?”  
  
Carlisle sat down and took the book from Sherlock.  “I thought you might notice that.  Very observant.  Yes.  Yes it is.”  
  
“Yesterday, I wouldn’t have believed it possible.  But somehow -- I don’t think you’re lying.  If you are, you are hiding all your tells.”  
  
“I’m not lying.  I have nothing to lie about.”

  
“Let me see that,” John said, confused.  His eyes widened as he looked at the painting.  “Amazing.  That does look just like you.”  
  


Carlisle nodded.  “I didn’t tell you before because -- well, it’s a period in my life that I’m not very proud of.”  He sighed before continuing.  “I worked with the Volturi back then.  They’re a governing body for....”  He hesitated.  “People like me.”  
  
“And why would you be ashamed of that?”  Sherlock asked.  
  
“The manner in which they uphold the law -- it can be suspect.  Harsh, and sometimes unreasonable.”  
  
“I see.  I assume you didn’t come here tonight to talk about your time with the Volturi,” Sherlock began.  “You told John that you think you know more about the disappearances.”  
  
“Yes, I do.”  Carlisle began.  He held out a photo.  “Was this the first kid to go missing?”  
  
Sherlock took the photo and studied it briefly.  “Riley Biers.  Missing for nearly 11 months.   Yes, he was the first.  But you knew that already.  How?”  
  
“Well, of course I read the newspaper.  But I also have from a reliable source that he was seen in the company of Victoria.  He’s been careless.”  
  
“I see.  So, what are we to do about him?” Sherlock asked.    
  
“Oh, nothing.” He saw Sherlock and John’s hesitant looks.  “Well, I don’t mean absolutely nothing.  But unfortunately, you two are just liabilities.”  
  
Sherlock furrowed his brow.  “Liability?”  Realization dawned.  “Oh.”  He grimaced.  “We’re...food.”  
  
Carlisle nodded.  “It’s not something I like to think about.  We’ve been...vegetarians... for quite some time now.  Our family doesn’t work like that.  Oh, that isn’t to say that none of us ever have the urge... but unfortunately, I think this is a fight that you won’t be able to help with.”  
  
Sherlock sighed.  “It’s not often that I’m rendered entirely useless.”    
  
John patted his hand.  “Oh, love, you’re not useless.  You just can’t fight this battle.  We can’t fight this battle.”

  
“No, you really can’t.  The reason that we are able to coexist with humans so readily is that we willfully suppress our urges.  In the midst of battle? No human in the area would be safe.”  He shot Sherlock a harsh look.  “I mean it.   John tells me how stubborn you can be.  But honestly -- if you want to stay safe, you have to stay far away.”  
  
Sherlock nodded.  “I feel like we haven’t solved anything.”  
  
John eyed him suspiciously.  “What do you mean?”  
  
“Well, if I’m correct, and I suspect I am, Carlisle and his family will win.  The newborn vampires will all be destroyed.  And when I say destroyed...”  
  
Carlisle nodded.  “Ah, you’ve worked that out, then.  Yes.”  
  
John raised his eyebrows.  “Someone want to let me in on the secret?”  
  
“In order to destroy a vampire, you have to burn them.  The easiest way is to tear them limb to limb and burn all the pieces.”  
  
John shuddered.  “Oh.”  
  
“So,” Sherlock began.  “There will be nothing left.  There will be nothing to present to the grieving families.  So, in essence, we have solved nothing.  We cannot provide evidence that their children are alive, because, if I’m not mistaken, newborn vampires look quite a bit different than you do, Carlisle.  They are paler, more otherworldly, and their eyes are bright crimson.  There’s no way they’d pass for human.   _You_ barely do. And once they are destroyed, there will be no evidence left.”  
  
John sighed.  “That makes me sad for their families.  Everyone should have some form of closure.”  
  
“Unfortunately, we don’t always get that, do we, John?” Carlisle asked, a sad smile playing at his lips.    
  
“No, we don’t.  And -- well, there were plenty of soldiers in my regiment whose bodies were less than whole.  But people expect that in a war zone.”  
  
Carlisle nodded.  “Too true.”  
  
Sherlock cleared his throat, pulling the trio from their reverie.  “Carlisle.  How do you intend on beating these newborns? I understand that they are quite a bit stronger within the first year since being turned than they are later in their life as a vampire.”  
  
“Yes.  That’s exactly why Victoria has chosen to do this. She could have easily gathered enough vampires to fight.  She wouldn’t win with older vampires, though.”  
  
“Again.  How are you going to win?”  Sherlock looked irritated and concerned all at once, which John found endearing.  How he could care so much about someone he had just met -- someone he didn’t believe could exist until recently? It was almost endearing.  
  
“That does present a problem, doesn’t it? Thankfully, we have a couple of things in our favor.  Number one -- did you know that some vampires have special powers?”  
  
“Special powers?” Sherlock asked.  “Like what?”  
  
“Mind-reading.  Being able to tell the future.”  
  
“You have this power?” John asked.  
  
“No, I don’t.  Edward, my son, can read minds.  Alice, my daughter, has the ability to see a person’s future.  She can predict the actions that a person is going to take, just by focusing on them.”  
  
“That could prove useful,” Sherlock said.    
  
“Yes,” Carlisle agreed.  “However, even that’s not enough against the newborns.  We’ve enlisted the help of another ally.  Well,” he amended.  “They’re not a typical ally.  Typically, they’re an enemy.  But given the chance to wipe out a bunch of vampires? They were more than willing to help.”  
  
“An enemy...” You could almost see the cogs in Sherlock’s brain turning.  “Oh.  Werewolves. Really?” he asked incredulously.  “You got the werewolves to help?”  
  
Carlisle nodded.  “We have a history, an understanding.  We have managed to coexist with them for quite some time. They were a little wary at first, but they’ve come around.  There’s no way Victoria and her minions would expect us to ally ourselves with werewolves.”  
  
Sherlock nodded.  “Impressive.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
John had been noticeably silent.  Sherlock eyed him warily.  “John?”  
  
“Sorry.”  He cleared his throat.  “It just... it seems like such a waste.”  
  
“What does?”  
  
“They’re just kids.”  
  
“Were,” Carlisle corrected.  “They were just kids.  They’re not... kids anymore.  You know this, John.  You’ve been to war.   War changes people.”  
  
“And this is war, is it?”  
  
“What else is it?”  
  
“Petty rivalry?”  
  
“Isn’t that what war is in the first place?  Petty rivalry.  Militaries of the world fight for dominance.  My family does not wish to fight.  But there’s more than just our lives at stake here.  Victoria and her newborns are a threat to public safety now.  She’s been acquiring newborns for over a year now.  And those newborns have to feed.  Daily.  On humans.  I also suspect that given too much longer, she’ll begin killing the newborns that have been ‘tamed’, who have existed for more than a year, and replacing them with new vampires.”  
  
John sighed.  “I don’t envy your life.  These are terrible choices to make.”  
  
“Yes, they are.”  
  
“Is that why you decided to become a doctor?” Sherlock asked.    
  
Carlisle smiled.  “He’s good,” he nodded at John.  “I wanted to help people.  So much of my life as a vampire was about rules and regulations and who was deserving enough to continue to live.  I wanted to do something good, too.”  
  
“I see,” said John.  “I suppose I can understand that.”  
  
“Of course you do,” Sherlock said.  “Remember what you told me the first night we worked together?”  
  
John nodded.  “Yes. I do. Well, not word for word, though I suspect you do,” he smirked at Sherlock.  “I said that I had lost some good men, some friends of mine in the war.  But that night, I killed a man – someone who had killed four people; who was going to kill you.  I remember saying that I would sleep a lot better that night.”

  
“You live your life by moral ambiguity.  Otherwise, you wouldn’t be with me, would you?”  
  
John shook his head.  “No.  I wouldn’t.  You’re right.”  He cleared his throat.  “So, Carlisle, when is this all taking place?”  
  
Carlisle furrowed his brow.  “Not quite sure.  Alice hasn’t seen anything specifically.  She probably won’t -- Victoria knows she can see the future.  The decision will have to be made by someone who she’s not tracking.  One of the newborns, perhaps.  Riley, possibly.”  
  
“If there’s anything we can do,” John offered.  
  
Carlisle nodded slowly.  “I thank you for the offer.  But this fight is ours.”  And with those words, he bid Sherlock and John farewell.  
  
  
 _Epilogue_  
  
Two weeks later, John and Sherlock pack up their things to head back to London.  It appears as though Mycroft has managed to locate Sebastian Moran. John knows that Mycroft could easily have his men take out Moran on their own.  They don’t need Sherlock’s help.  But Sherlock -- well, Sherlock wants to exact his own revenge.  
  
“Funny, isn’t it?”  
  
“What’s that, John?”  
  
“We always think there is this big line between good and evil.  But that’s not really true, is it?”  
  
“What are you on about?”  
  
“Well, Victoria wanted to hurt someone who hurt her.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You want to hurt someone who had a hand in hurting you.”

  
Sherlock scoffed.  “It’s not really the same, John.”  
  
“Oh, I think it is.  You want to be the one to take out Moran.  You know that Mycroft could do it alone, without your help.  But you want to be there.  You want to watch the light go out of his eyes.”  
  
“He had a gun trained on you when I jumped.  Of course I want to be there.”  
  
“Like I said -- not a huge dividing line between good and evil.”  
  
“John Watson, you’ve gone all philosophical on me.”  
  
“I guess I have.”  
  
“It’s not really like you.  You fought wars.  You killed a man to save my life the first day you met me.”  
  
John grinned.  “You’re right.  I don’t know what got into me.”  
  
“You’re afraid.”  
  
“What? No.”  
  
“You are.  You’re afraid this is going to go wrong.  You’re afraid that you’re going to lose me -- again.”  
  
“A bit.  I always am, but this seems to mean more.”  
  
“The last thread of Moriarty’s web.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“The stakes are higher.”  
  
“They are.”

 

Sherlock placed his hand into John’s and squeezed gently.  “I know.  We’re in this together.”

  
  


 


End file.
